The light streams towards me through the front porch windows. The light is golden, and it highlights the yellow of the front porch’s ceiling, and the way that the white rocking chair’s back creates lined shadows,...
This is a love note to all tequila-lovin’ women. We aren’t whores or sluts. We aren’t doing body shots in Cabo-whatever Wabo. I just made that last part up because I never have even...
You married a writer, and I’m I sorry. I crawl inside of myself and spin out a fine web of words that—I think—make you wonder where they were, as I was passionately arguing with you...
The feel of tender, young grass between her squeezed-tightly fingertips was primal. The tug, uprooting them, connected her with a fiery anger that she didn’t know her belly housed. Then, momentarily afterward, she’d feel regret...
The sky outside the window where I sit sipping white wine and typing looks apathetic. The outline of the trees is surrounded by a boring shade of white-grey instead of bright blue or a...
I was reading to my daughter in bed last night. Looking out the window, the green of the trees contrasted the grey sky, seeming ethereal. The yellow walls were both cheerful and soothing. I...
Life is a spiral, with one circle ending and another simultaneously beginning; layering and weaving thick histories and memories that ultimately makeup our very personal stories. My own personal story is evolving once again, as...
Her fingers are coarse from the dry winter air. She rubs them together absentmindedly; running the careful grooves of one finger whirl against another. She spreads her arms out wide to her side—her thin,...
I’ve felt a little sorry for myself as a writer lately. I have grand ideas and vision, but I’m, essentially, in full-on mommy-mode; when writing does and should come second. This difficult balancing act...
Date a girl who likes to shovel—she’s not afraid to dig deeply into life. She’s not afraid to get red and sweaty in a way that has nothing to do with sex, and while...
